


Flashes in the Storm

by maglor_still_lives



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A collection of scenes, Dagor Aglareb, Dagor Bragollach, Gen, Himring, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:07:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26206915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maglor_still_lives/pseuds/maglor_still_lives
Summary: Between the Glorious Battle and the Sudden Flame, Maedhros has seen two different sides of war. A collaboration with hennethgalad for Tolkien RSB 2020!
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 9
Kudos: 27
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	Flashes in the Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hennethgalad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/gifts).



Maedhros sat outside his tent, scratching at the stump of his right arm and contemplating the valley that yawned before him. It was barren here. That wasn’t a surprise, really; the scouts had warned him that the Marches were cold and dusty scrubland, poorly suited for an empire. But arriving had been a disappointment anyway; emerging from the narrow Pass of Aglon into the blinding sun and dry air, nary a tree to be seen. The Sindar said the slopes would bloom into green grass and wildflowers come spring, but he would believe that when he saw it.

The vastness made the hills good lookout points, Maedhros figured, and his builders assured him that the stone beneath the dry slopes was strong. Granite, they said, as gray as the overcast sky that taunted the hills with its lack of rain. 

Set on the bald mountaintop, the fortress would be easy to defend, but hard to feed. And what would he trade? Caranthir was looking for jewels in the mountains, Fingolfin controlled the vast breadbasket of Hithlum, and Maedhros had chunks of gray rock and bushels upon bushels of short dry grass. So far, only the gristly Beleriand cattle and lightning-fast wild antelope seemed to thrive on this desolation. The horses of Valinor were showing their ribs beneath their coats from lack of grain. The people didn’t look much better.

A pair of ravens were playing in the wind, croaking merrily as they tumbled and soared toward the tallest hill. It was being smoothed and huge granite bricks were hulking just below the summit, waiting mutely to be assembled into walls and towers. On the slope below them were the workers’ camps and the masonries, where the tents were fast giving way to permanent structures. Those, it seemed, would become the first villages in his city. 

If resources permitted, he would like to build a wall encircling them too. Anything to keep Morgoth at bay.

So his trade prospects looked as bleak as the landscape. On the bright side, he thought, his brothers would soon be leaving for prospects to the east and south. It came not a moment too soon. The horns of Celegorm’s hunters roused him at all hours of the night, and he had come precious close to strangling Curufin on multiple occasions. Maglor couldn’t seem to decide whether he wanted to be involved with the government or not; one day he’d be hovering at Maedhros’s shoulder dispensing unrequested advice, and then he’d disappear for a week into his tent, the only signs of his existence becoming the mournful harp and half-finished verses replaying the events of the last few years. As if anyone needed another reminder. Was he like this while I was a captive?

Once he had his own domain, Maglor could figure out how to split his time between his music and his government on his own (Maedhros having long since seen to it that he was backed by a capable deputy). Celegorm could ride at all hours of the night and depopulate his own wildlife, Caranthir could burn his own diplomatic bridges, and Curufin could scorch his eyebrows off in his forge if he pleased. As long as their kingdoms were stable, he could no longer bring himself to care what they did with their time.

But Amras? He wasn’t sure about Amras. He was quiet these days. While Celegorm chased game with a posse of warriors, Amras hunted alone for days at a time. He’d come back with elk or antelope or bear stowed on his packhorse, give the meat and trophies to the kitchens, and disappear. When Maedhros talked to him, he’d answer until Maedhros stopped. He was fine, he said. It had been thirty-odd years, he said; and Maedhros would nod politely and leave him alone.

Maedhros wished he could keep his youngest brother here with him, at the fortress. He needed somebody to watch him, and as tired as he was of corralling his brothers, Maedhros didn’t relish the idea of being left alone in his cold, half-completed castle. His ministers were dutiful, but they were afraid of him and thus didn’t make good company. He’d tried to convince Amras that he could be useful as a deputy, a commander, or a reconnaissance rider, but Amras wouldn’t have it. Hunting was his passion, he said. He didn’t want to be a bother, he said.

But he was an adult, and if he preferred to go alone, Maedhros could not stop him. He’d make friends with his advisors, perhaps. If there was one person in this entire realm who wasn’t afraid of him, he would find them eventually.

\-----------------

The sun was slanting its first rays into the courtyard as Maedhros sat down at his desk. The papers on it were the same as the day before; curious. Usually his lieutenant would be here with the day’s news, or would at least have sent somebody to explain his absence.

And here he’d thought that lordship would bring him freedom and glory! No. It was all just paperwork.

Nobody appeared with an explanation, so he glanced through the papers that were left behind. Nothing interesting; notes on the wool harvest, the castellan’s report on her education program--it was going better than expected--and a letter to Fingolfin with half its words scratched out, rewritten, and scratched out again.

He picked up the letter and scanned it; nothing useful. He crossed out another paragraph, crumpled the letter, and sidearmed it at the wastebasket. It struck just below the rim and fell onto the floor. Still no sign of the lieutenant, or indeed, anyone else with governing news.

He found another sheet of paper and began the letter again. 

Your Grace High King Uncle,

Our livestock have been plentiful this year, and I pray hope that your crops are as well. We are committed to the agreement of forty thousand bushels of wheat in exchange for--he dug through the notes on the wool harvest--twelve thousand pounds of wool and six thousand head of beef cattle. We will send them south of the Ered Gorgoroth, escorted by a division of mounted warriors, and are amenable to…

The door opened and his lieutenant came in, brows furrowed.

“Where were you?” Maedhros asked. Judging by the sun, he was late by almost an hour.

“The scouts came back.”

“And?” Spies and outriders and scouts and messengers arrived daily. They were rarely dealt with by the second-in-command.

The lieutenant picked his words with care. “There’s a... disturbance... in the North. Nothing conclusive. But there have been storms, and flashes in the sky that might be fire from Angband.”

“Angband is always on fire.”

“Never this much, the scouts say. The ground shakes and the sky stays orange all night and smoky all day.”

“Can’t you give me anything more definite than that?”

“I can’t. I haven’t been there.”

“Once you have something, come back to me. Get the quartermaster to plan for a long march and a battle--but for Elbereth’s sake, do it quietly. I don’t want rumors flying.”

“Of course not.” He made a cursory half-bow. “I’ll look into it.”

\-----------------

It wasn’t long before he came back. Maedhros had written and rewritten the letter to Fingolfin, and his hand was starting to cramp, fouling his mood. His lieutenant didn’t even bother to knock.

Maedhros, recognizing the footsteps, looked up. “What?”

“The reports are true. We need to go, and soon. Meet Morgoth as far from here as is feasible.”

“So,” he said, “it looks a fight.”

The lieutenant inhaled. “Yes.”

“Are we ready?”

“I hope so. We’ve been training well, and the drills we did with the High King last decade will be useful. The quartermaster thinks--thinks--he can outfit and feed the army for two hundred miles out and back, but it’ll depend on the casualties.”

Maedhros crumpled his latest letter to Fingolfin. As it turned out, there were more important things to discuss than grain prices. 

\-----------------

The march began three days later, with Maedhros in the lead. Fingolfin was leaving from Hithlum and converging on the same spot, as per a letter he’d sent two weeks ago but Maedhros had only just received. They would smash the orcs between hammer and anvil, if all went well.

The elven host was arrayed in splendor; Maedhros hadn’t realized how many fluttering swallowtail banners and warhorse caparisons his armory kept in store. Next to the bright garb of his knights and vassals, Maedhros’s black-and-silver banner felt ascetic, even drab.

No matter. He’d long ago decided that battle was not a celebration. In a week--maybe more, maybe less--he’d be ripping someone’s guts out. At least black fabric didn’t stain easily.

But whatever his personal philosophy, he wasn’t so stupid as to enforce it and sink the high spirits that the army found itself in. Singing rose from behind him: an odd mix of Valinorian and Laiquendi songs, bright and cheerful. They sang of bloodlust and victory and the families they left behind and longed to return to. Maedhros had to contain a chuckle when he heard the highborn knights, elves who had never touched a shovel in their lives, belting their desire to survive the battle so they could help with the cabbage harvest back home.

A fair number of the songs had been written or rewritten by Maglor; it was a pity he wasn’t with them to hear his work in use. He remained in the Marches, guarding them from the rear in case this battle turned out to be a massive diversion. Maedhros couldn’t rule out that the attack on Dorthonion was a way of moving the Noldor’s armies out of the way so Morgoth could attack through Maglor’s Gap.

Maedhros knew it ran contrary to his own philosophy, but the more he imagined the battle, the more it felt like vengeance. Retribution for every soldier who fell beside him when he was captured, for every elf still trapped in Angband, and for his own suffering. He’d trained for this, and he’d be damned if he didn’t deal back what he’d taken.

\-----------------

When they set out, he’d told himself that war was a foul business and he simply wanted it over with as soon as possible. But looking around, it was hard not to feel a sense of pride at the orcs strewn unceremoniously on the field, and at how few elven corpses lay beside them.

Suddenly there came a cry. “Maitimo!”

Maedhros twisted in his saddle. A black-haired elf on a white stallion was sauntering towards him, picking his way between the bodies. He didn’t respond, simply because he could never think of how to greet his uncle. One did not greet the High King by his given name, but although he had abdicated willingly, “your grace” still stuck in his throat. He raised a hand in greeting and turned his horse to meet him.

They rode alongside each other. Fingolfin had joy in his face and blood in his hair. “Well met,” Maedhros said. He extended his left arm before Fingolfin could reach out with his right--people often forgot, and Maedhros had learned to move fast to save face.

Fingolfin grasped his forearm with an iron grip and pulled him in close, grinning. “We did it, huh? We showed them!” He spoke Quenya and Maedhros, a bit surprised, responded in kind.

“That we did,” Maedhros laughed. “Not a single orc escaped me.” Their horses circled, nipping at each other in their excitement.

“Nor me. Did you take any wounds?”

“None worth mentioning. This is a battle for the annals.”

“Morgoth was watching,” Fingolfin said. “He knows now that we are not to be underestimated.”

“Oh, I think he’s sorry he left me alive. Where is Fingon?”

“He’s well! He’s across the plateau. I know he hoped you would come across each other in the battle, but the tides didn’t turn that way.”

“Can’t be helped, I suppose.” Maedhros checked his horse and drew back from the High King. “I need to go help collect the spoils. The steel from the orcs will keep us supplied for a century.”

“Leave some for us,” Fingolfin said with a merry laugh. “I’ll tell Fingon you asked about him.” He wheeled his stallion and galloped away, leaping wildly over corpses and splattering dirt on the silvery-white legs of the horse.

Maedhros urged his horse in the other direction, his guards following a short distance behind. The satisfaction of revenge was already beginning to turn hollow, as his mother had always told him it would. Were there no more orcs to slay? No more wargs to gut? No more blows to strike against Morgoth, who was himself unharmed within his fortress?

He told himself that every chipped sword and deformed breastplate he wrested from the dead would be another thorn in Bauglir’s side, but it did not feel the same.

\-----------------

A horse’s scream echoed through the window. Maedhros paid it no mind, instead shuffling through a sheaf of papers drawn up by the castellan, detailing the repairs that the fortress was due for and the expected costs of money and materials. The local granite had held up well, but the soil beneath the fort had not--the archer towers were listing sideways as the ground beneath them eroded, and intermittent rains and long droughts had raised and sunk the walls until long, branching cracks appeared.

The horse screamed again, followed by the sounds of shouting. Maedhros sighed and went to the window.

In the courtyard below, four elves were struggling to control the animal. From three stories above, Maedhros could see its eyes rolling and sweat soaking its dark flanks; it threw its head against the bridle, tossing and kicking at anyone who came near.

More elves swarmed the scene, speaking softly and offering treats, but it was beyond calming. Its nostrils flared like it smelled something foul on the wind.

Maedhros went back to his desk. A panicked horse was nothing to worry over. Useful though they were, the animals took fright at the slightest shadow; he often envied the orcs their wolf-steeds, who were filled with teeth and balked at nothing.

The faint odor of smoke wafted in from the window. He paid it no mind.

\-----------------

There was a commotion on the battlements. A sharp-eyed lookout cried out and the sentries followed his outstretched finger with their gaze; a rider raced up the mountainside, leaving a trail of dust and scattered peasants in his wake. Her tunic was scorched and her chestnut horse was smeared with black soot. The guards at the gate moved to bar her way. 

She skidded to a stop in front of them, and the guards smelled burned hair and terror on both the elf and her steed.

“Maedhros,” the rider gasped as her horse heaved for breath. Charred sores covered the exposed skin on the right sides of both the horse and rider. “I need—to see—“

The guards looked at each other. “She’s from the Gap,” one realized; they hastily moved out of her way. The rider gasped one more time, kicked the horse’s flanks, and sped up into the streets of the city. 

Messengers sprinted ahead of her, carrying warnings to other parts of the fortress. The rider slowed to a trot, her horse’s shoes striking sparks against the cobblestones; “which way to the palace?” she begged of the awestruck passerby. They pointed her wordlessly through the streets.

When she finally reached the courtyard, a legion of attendants was already waiting. Two took her horse and led it limping down to the stables; another offered water, which she refused; a dozen servants hovered anxiously; and a dark-haired, martially-dressed lord came to her side and led her into the castle.

“You come from the Gap?” he asked urgently. 

She nodded, barely able to speak. Her limping steps quickly fell behind the advisor’s, and he checked his pace to stay beside her. 

“What happened?”

The messenger shook her head in inarticulate exhaustion. The advisor saw then that the dark wool of her breeches was gone from her outer leg, and what he’d mistaken for fabric was in fact blackened skin. No wonder she could barely walk.

“Orcs? From Angband?”

Again, a nod. The counselor was almost walking backward, staring intently at her as she stumbled after him. 

“We’re almost there. You can tell Lord Maedhros yourself.” He supported her up a spiral staircase and banged on a door that was flanked by a pair of black-liveried guards. Before they could reach the door, it was flung open from the inside.

“Come in,” Maedhros said, retreating to the center of the room. “Tell me everything.”

She staggered in a few steps and looked around desperately for a place to sit. One of the elves put a chair behind her and she collapsed into it and sat there unspeaking. 

Around the room, a flock of advisors perched on chairs and window ledges, inching closer as the messenger took a few shuddering breaths. “Maglor’s Gap was attacked. The dragon led the troops, with orcs behind. Many died. Most. The land is lost.”

One of the ministers let out a soft groan; another buried her head in her hands. Maedhros crouched inches from her face. “Is Maglor safe?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Many are fleeing here.”

“How many?” cut in another. 

“I don’t know. Hundreds, maybe, if they survive the journey.”

“Warriors, or civilians?”

“Both.”

“How far away are they?”

“A day? I don’t know.” The messenger hissed through her teeth. “Please.”

Maedhros nodded. “Yes. Go.” He turned to his advisors. “So what are we to do?”

\-----------------

Maglor didn’t bother to knock. He slammed the door open and loomed in the doorway like a wraith, with his clothes in tatters and his eyes feral with pain. He reeked of burned hair.

Maedhros’s advisors shrank back while Maedhros approached his brother; he reached out to grip him by the shoulder, but seeing the burns, he thought better of it. “Are you alright?”

Maglor looked blankly down at his scorched jerkin and blistered skin, then back at Maedhros. “As you see.”

Bad question. Sorry. Maedhros guided him to a seat. “Where is your armor?”  
“Somewhere between here and home. The metal was too hot, so I took it off.”

An advisor scribbled that down. That bodes ill. “Where are your warriors?”

Maglor sank in his seat and gestured helplessly, wincing. “Dead. Dying. Disappeared.”

“Were there any surviving fighters? I need to know.”

“Yes, well, I don’t. If any did, they’ll find their way to your forces, I’m sure.” Maglor hissed and shifted position.

“Why are you here?” Maedhros asked. “You should be with a healer.”

“No time. I wanted to make sure I warned you first, about the dragon.”

“I already was. I take it you don’t know how to fight it?”

“No! Of course not, would I be here if I did? Arrows incinerate before they hit its mouth and just bounce off its hide. I have no idea how it can die.”

“Shit. Go get help. I’ll visit if I’m able.”

Maglor stood gingerly. “It was good to see you too. Try not to die out there.”

\-----------------

His servant was continually brushing his hair to one side or the other as he fastened the breastplate. Loose strands fell in front of Maedhros’s eyes and he shoved them back roughly. 

“Cut it off,” he snapped.

“Sir?”

“My hair. It’s in the way.”

“I can tie it up for you, sir--”

“No. It’ll just fall down and catch fire. Cut it off.”

The servant hesitated for a moment. “Yes, sir.”

The servant rushed out and Maedhros stood there half-armored, alone for a moment. This might well be his end--everyone’s end. He’d been a fool to be complacent, and now the entire continent paid for that.

Dragonfire was a new sort of death. He’d seen the balrogs burning under the stars and the hellfires raging in Angband, but he’d only heard of the golden worm in letters from Fingon. Apparently it was huge; apparently its maw glowed blue with fire, and if you stood too close, the hair on your arms would singe off. From the grayish-yellow smoke that darkened the sun and wormed through his windows and around his door, the reports were true. The burns on Maglor’s warriors were black, red, and creamy white where they reached all the way to the bone, like an orc’s banner tattooed upon the living.

He looked down at the lumpy, scarred end of his wrist. He’d had it cauterized once before, and he had no desire to experience that pain again. His armor was supposed to be fireproof, or at least, his father had said so. Maedhros had never found occasion to test it.

The servant came back in, coughing.

“What took so long?” Maedhros asked, snapped violently from his reverie.  
“Sorry. I couldn’t find any scissors.”  
“There are no shears in this Valar-forsaken fortress? What do I have all these sheep for?”

“No, sir, I found some. Shears, I mean. How short would you like it?”

“As close to bald as you can get without slicing me open.”

The servant made short work of it, and the long red hair fell to the ground in unceremonious chunks. When he was done, Maedhros rubbed his prickly scalp. This would keep him cooler under his helmet for sure, and his servants wouldn’t need to help him with anymore.

His armor adjusted, he went down the stairs and into the courtyard. His warhorse and retinue were waiting, with wet cloths tied around their faces to guard against the smoke. These were his trusted guards, the most skilled warriors in the land. Hopefully they would be enough.

Their eyes streaming from the smoke, they cantered to the field where the army stood waiting. The field was mere miles from the fortress itself--if it could truly be called a field. Maedhros had assembled his army like it was a pitched battle, but truth be told, he only had a vague idea of where the orcs even were. From the reports, they were running in scattered bands, killing and burning as they went. There was no enemy force for him to smash into, but if he spread a broad front, the small orc groups would break like water on his shield wall. Hopefully.

The soldiers parted and let him pass to the front. Maedhros had only had the moments between the courtyard and the front lines to think of a rousing speech. He didn’t have much.

He wheeled to face the lines of elves, clearing his throat. “Warriors!” he called, amplifying his voice as he’d seen Magor do in front of a crowd. “The hour is at hand. This battle has been a long time in coming, and we have trained long and hard for it.

“Many of you remember the Dagor-Nuin-Giliath, when demons of fire rampaged through the ranks. We held together then, and we will hold together now.

“Bauglir thinks that his twisted creations can destroy us, the Noldor of Valinor and Himring. He thinks he can destroy our lands and our people. He cannot!”

He swallowed back a coughing fit as ash flew into his mouth. “This is our chance to obliterate the evil in the north. Bauglir himself has delivered it to us. Fight hard, fight bravely, fight together, and we can destroy the darkness as we did in the Aglareb. Are you prepared?”

A cheer rose from the elves, melodious and eerie. Maedhros galloped back to the center, scowling. Not one of my better ones. He took his place among his warriors--a sensible four rows back. He would fight, but there was no sense in dying first.

Maglor cantered up to him. “Not one of your better ones.”

“If you don’t like it, you can do it next time.”

Maglor grunted dismissively. “Your hair’s gone.”

“Fire hazard. What are you doing here?”

Maglor’s horse, a borrowed chestnut, snorted and pranced. “The healers gave me something strong. I’m ready to fight.”

“Where’s your army?”

“I gave it to your commander. I don’t know how to lead them anymore.”  
Maedhros frowned. “Then why are you here?”

Maglor fingered his sword. “Catharsis.”

“Fine. If you’re not leading, stay behind me.”

He called them forward, and they marched blindly into the clouds of smoke.

\-----------------

Maedhros’s horse trotted through the gates with his head sagging and his limp deepening with every step. Just a bit more. What was left of his guard—just three warriors—staggered into the courtyard after him. 

Maedhros yanked the reins and the horse halted, wheezing for air. He took his feet from the stirrups, shifted his weight forward, and the horse’s front legs buckled. 

The pair of them thudded to the ground in a heap of sooty flesh. The horse screamed and thrashed in panic and Maedhros struggled to pull himself free; guards and attendants rushed to their lord, grabbing him and dragging him beyond the reach of the hooves that struck sparks on the ground. The horse still whinnied and snorted, trying fruitlessly to haul itself to its feet.

He sat for a moment, hunched over on the flagstones, sweaty and nauseous. His left hand, unbidden, found the straps that held his shield to his right arm and undid them; the shield clattered to the ground, making the horse twitch and half-rise in fright before sinking down again.

“Are you all right, sir?” A guard was standing above him, offering a hand up. 

Maedhros ignored him and staggered to his feet. He froze and hissed as he straightened up, but after a moment of head-swimming pain, he stood. “Who else has returned?” he croaked. 

“Very few, sir. Shall I take you to the council chambers?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” Maedhros mumbled his words and tried to walk; he’d fallen on his leg rather badly, he realized, and had probably bruised something and wrenched something else. No matter. 

He hobbled up the stairs, leaving his shield and wounded horse in the courtyard; someone else would know what to do with them. The worried guard followed him.

He collapsed into the chair in his study. “How many wounded?”

“I—I don’t know, sir. They’re still being collected.”

The number of dead didn’t matter right now. The dead could rot where they lay; it was the ones who still gasped on the field beside them that needed attention. Maedhros had no idea how much burn ointment the hospital had in stock, but he suspected it wasn’t nearly enough. “Thank you. Get the lieutenant and any information you can find.”

The guard hesitated at the door. “Have you not heard, sir? He fell.”

“What?” Maedhros croaked. 

“Midway through the fighting. His horse went down beneath him and he did not rise.”

“SHIT!” Maedhros crumpled the paper in his fist and hurled it to the ground. “Eru!” He fell back, utterly spent, and shut his eyes. “Where did it happen?”

“In a crush of people beyond the second hill. I saw him fall.”

Maedhros massaged his eyelids. “And you did nothing?”

“It--it was almost too smoky to see. We had to move on before we choked on the ash.”

“Eru,” Maedhros groaned. “Is anybody searching?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well” --he opened his eyes and straightened up-- “go to the castellan and tell her to make sure of it.”

The guard disappeared and Maedhros sank his head into his hand. “Elbereth!”

That was half his government gone missing in action. But Maglor was alive, at least. He’d hailed Maedhros at the main gates, looking somehow more enraged than he’d begun. Half his hair was scorched off and his eyes were still ablaze with the fury of battle, even after most others had faded to exhaustion. He was with his forces outside the walls still, gathering them together and taking stock of what was left.

He didn’t seem to have found much catharsis, but perhaps he was a fool for looking.

\-----------------

As the smoke drifted away, the sun set in streaks of fire as bright as dragon’s breath. Maedhros watched it sink below the battlements, casting long shadows from the hills and the corpses littered on the plain. He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his hand through his stubbly hair; it prickled in a comforting sort of way. You’re still here. Getting stabbed, by your own head.

The dead were being collected, the living were being patched up, and the loose ends were being tied. He couldn’t quite swallow the guilty feeling that the carnage could have been prevented if only he’d had the foresight to listen to his uncle. But, he told himself--it had happened, and he would not make the same mistake twice.

They would rebuild, as best they could. Hopefully they would reproduce. Orcs spawned like rabbits while elves had a child every hundred years; never had he felt this disadvantage more keenly.

\-----------------

There was a knock on the doorframe. His lieutenant stood there, chewing his lip. “You should read this.”

Maedhros extended his hand and took the letter. Half his lieutenant’s face was still swollen, and the gash across his eye was a bright and angry red; another casualty of the Bragollach. Still, he was lucky the search parties had found him before the crows pecked out his other eyeball.

He read the report once, then again, and a third time. “Is this real?”

“I mean--nobody’s seen it. All reports suggest it’s true.”

Maedhros was at a loss. “Barahir’s son--and Thingol’s daughter--eloped and stole--.”

“Yes.”

“Where are they?”

“Beyond our reach.”

Maedhros scanned the letter again. “Thank you.”

The lieutenant recognized his cue and left softly. Maedhros stared at the paper. He picked it up, put it down, and picked it up again. He swore. A sinda, a mortal, and--he squinted--his brother’s dog?

Maybe he should have been sending stealth missions this whole time. The theft must have been the last thing Morgoth expected. But then again, he wasn’t sure any of his warriors could sing a Vala to sleep.

An elf, a human, and a dog defeating the Dark Enemy--it was like something from a storybook. He was like something from a storybook, wasn’t he? The fallen prince, gathering the shards of his kingdom about him as the dark clouds massed in the north. He wasn’t sure if that made him the tragic hero or the villain. Maybe he was just a side character in Fingolfin’s story. It wasn’t a children’s story, that much he did know for certain.

If this were a story, he would make one last, final, broken attempt to drive Morgoth from his fortress and reclaim what was lost. But this wasn’t a story. He wasn’t a tragic hero or a despicable villain, he was Maedhros, and his attempt didn’t have to be broken.

He dipped his quill into the inkwell and found a clean sheet of paper. Dear Fingon, he scratched, have you heard the story of Beren and Luthien? It has given me an idea.


End file.
